The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

the man. He is old, his dark hair salted with grey and the lines on his face burnt there by the sun. There is something about him which is familiar but he cannot place it. His cloak is torn and so thin that Ralph can swear the light shines through it. The old man is crying, silently, his body swaying with the rhythms of his grief, and it is almost the only movement occurring in this star-forsaken wood. Ralph wonders if he has been crying for so long that the possibility of stopping is unthinkable. He is reluctant to break the strange spell of weeping, but already Annyeke is stepping forward into the glade, the colours of compassion flowing from her like a spring river: blue, pink, mauve.
    “Who are you?” she asks. “Why are you crying?”
    The old man gives a low gasping moan and staggers to his feet. Upright, his hair is more matted than the Lammas Lord first realised and there is madness there also, something fluid and uncontrollable about his expression.
    “No, no, ” the old man whispers in a rising note which pierces through the wind. And then, foolishly, he is running away, round behind the cow and her calf and heading for the other side of the wood.
    From instinct and without question, Ralph pursues him, a nagging knife of familiarity stabbing at his thoughts. Somehow this man is the key to saving Simon. He must not be allowed to escape.
    The capture takes but a matter of moments, no longer. Ralph reaches the fugitive easily and brings him down, even before he’s run more than a few paces back into the trees.
    “Be gentle,” Annyeke cries out, and he can hear the rustle and soft thud of her footsteps as she hurries after them. “Don’t hurt him.”
    Ralph curses. “I don’t intend to.”
    She frowns and nods, before crouching down next to the old man. He is shaking like a leaf in an autumn gale. She lays her hand upon his shoulder and he glances round, whimpering.
    Even before the man speaks, Ralph knows who he is.
    “My name is Bradyn Hartstongue of the White Lands,” he said. “Tell me, where is my son?”

Chapter Seven: Despair and Hope

    Simon

    He tried to move his wrists but the ropes pinioned his body to the tree. The pain ripped through him and he groaned aloud. This must be a series of knots the blacksmith knew, something designed to teach a horse to obey in the slow tightening of the bond. Now it was being used for an equally slow killing. He should accept it, he shouldn’t be looking for any relief. If this punishment was what the villagers had chosen to subject him to, as they had every right to do, then he should be silent and allow it to happen. Hadn’t he offered himself up for what he had done?
    But at his heart, in the very depths of his blood, the truth remained: it wasn’t enough. The pain he suffered here would never be enough for the way he had betrayed these people and murdered the best of them. All those month-cycles of giving Ralph what he wanted – the names and thoughts of those the Lammas Lord feared would rise against him. Every desire for a better life, every stray notion of future freedom punished by banishment or death. He and Ralph had been caught up, yes, in the mind-executioner’s revenge, but that was only an excuse for the choices they had made. Choices to fear and not to trust, choices to deny the inevitability of change and stand like the worst kind of fools against it, choices to kill and not to protect. Oh yes, the punishment he suffered, both for himself and for Ralph, was even now – when his every bone cried out for relief and his skin cried out for water – too light. The atonement he was making was not yet complete. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he had no more strength to weep them. He needed to do something more, but what?
    As Simon rolled his head, he caught a glimpse of a small rounded figure beneath him to the right. His vision was so darkened he could not have recognised her in the flesh but the remnants of his mind etched her name in stone. Jemelda. It was right she should be here as she and her fellows had judged him to the hilt and found him wanting. It was right she should watch his punishment all the way to death. Odd how he could accept it today, when before he had fought it and begged for help. He tried to smile and felt the blood welling up from his cracked lips. He needed her to come nearer, he needed Jemelda to hear him.
    When he tried to speak her name, no sound came out of his mouth. Not only that but the effort cost him dear